by S. M. Soto
“Cristian?”
I nod, tasting the name on my tongue. “I like it.”
Sophia makes a noise. “But you don’t love it.”
I chuckle under my breath, scratching the back of my neck. “It’s hard to say.”
“How about this,” she offers. “We each come up with a list of names we like and once he’s born, we’ll decide what his name is. Once we know what he looks like.”
I look down at her, warmth spilling into my chest. “I like that idea.”
She grins up at me. “I can’t believe we only have seven more weeks. How are we supposed to prepare in just seven weeks?”
I sober at the fear that’s bleeding into her tone. I feel it too. The fear of the little guy coming. But I have faith in her. In her ability to be a mother. If there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that Sophia is going to make an incredible mother. The same can’t be said for me. I know what not to do. How not to act. Just the opposite of my father and his father. But how can I know I won’t fuck it up? How can I be certain I won’t drop him the first time he’s placed in my arms? I’ve never held anything so innocent or precious, besides his mother. I wouldn’t even know how to hold a baby. Don’t know the first thing.
“I want him to look like you,” she says snapping me out of my thoughts. “Lex swears he’s still a girl, but I keep telling her that ship has long sailed.” I smirk. “I keep picturing this perfect little boy and when I see him in my dreams, he’s the spitting image of you.”
“Let’s hope not.”
Sophia pouts. “Hey. Stop that.”
“I think he’s going to look just like you. Maybe he’ll even get these beautiful eyes,” I say, skimming the pad of my thumb across her cheek. Swiping it beneath her eye, following her eye socket.
Sophia sucks in a sharp breath. Her hand slides over mine, caressing my skin. “I love you, Creed. So much.”
I lean down, pressing my lips against hers. I take her mouth in a heated kiss, breathing my love into her with each stroke and glide of our mouths pressed together. I slide my tongue into her mouth, her sweet little tantalizing one toys with mine. My hand glides through the silky strands of her hair and I cup the nape of her neck, situating her in the perfect position for me.
“I love you too, Angel,” I breathe over her sweet lips.
Pressing one last peck to her forehead, I let her fall asleep in my arms and just lay there, listening to the sound of her breathing and resting my hand over her stomach as I plot. Things aren’t going to be easy. Especially if the FBI is going to be an issue. I refuse to bring my son into a world where he’s in danger.
That gives me seven weeks to get rid of them. Every last threat.
WHEN I WAKE THE NEXT morning, I don’t get out of bed right away; instead, I shift my gaze down to the warm body cuddled in my arms. I stare down at Sophia while she sleeps soundly in my arms a little longer than I normally do. My eyes trace the soft lines and features of her face. Her dark lashes are fanned across her cheeks that are tinged pink with warmth from sleeping. Her lips that are naturally pouty have seemed to grow in size during the pregnancy. Everything about her is the same yet so incredibly different. I’ve never thought pregnant women were beautiful, never thought much about them at all, but Sophia, the way she carries pregnancy, she looks like a fucking goddess. She’s never looked more beautiful than she does carrying my child.
I spent most of the dawn watching her sleep. Focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, her parted lips, the sensation of her soft skin beneath my rough hands. When I wasn’t doing that, I was talking to our little guy. It’s become a morning ritual lately. While his mom is still asleep, I chat with him about anything and everything. About how much I love his mother. How afraid I am for him to finally be here. About how much my mother would’ve loved him. But most of all, how much even now, I already love him.
Before Sophia, I never thought I was capable of love. But it seems because of her, I’m finding out my capacity for love and loving isn’t what I thought it was. What I feel for them both? I can’t even put it into words. It’s all-consuming. The love. The need to protect and cherish. And to think, if I’d never met her, I wouldn’t have this feeling. That feeling I get in my chest whenever I see her or whenever I feel him kick.
When the morning rays of light start to spill into the room, I press a kiss to her hair and slide out of bed to get dressed. I don’t bother with breakfast. I head straight for the basement and I’m not even surprised when I find Garrett already there waiting. His need for blood, to make Finlay feel pain, dare I say, it might even be on the same level as mine.
“What’s the plan today?”
“Nothing until one of Ben’s associates gives him a checkup, just to see what he needs to keep his energy up.”
The smile that spreads across Cova’s face is filled with bloodlust. We don’t have to wait long for Ben and his associate to arrive, and when they do, we stand back, watching them work on Finlay seamlessly. I can see the questions in their eyes. They’re probably wondering why I’m doing this and what kind of monster that makes me—but I’m not paying them to wonder or ask questions. I’m paying them to keep him alive.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I watch Finlay through narrowed slits. I feel the doctor’s’ gazes on me, so all I do is give them both a nod, letting them know they’re free to go if they’ve finished. They patched up Finlay’s wounds and set him on a fluid drip, to breathe some life back into him. The hospitality was just enough to give him energy and rouse him back up. That meant it was time to play again.
I can feel Garrett’s body vibrating with anger beside me. I glance his way and catch him curling his hands into fists, tightening then opening again. He repeats the process over and over, all the while keeping his narrowed gaze trained on Finlay.
I close the distance between me and Finlay, and I drop down to my haunches. His head is hanging down, so I can’t see his face. Gripping my hand in his hair, I yank his head back and his eyes fly open. They’re bloodshot, no doubt from the popped blood vessels from the pain. The pallor of his skin is still white, but not as bad as it was the day before—he looked almost paperwhite. The grime and dried blood coating his skin is rancid. After sitting in your own bodily fluids after a few days, the stench starts to stick with you.
His eyes are filled with hatred. It’s boiling over, glaring daggers into me. All it does is make me smirk.
“You know, Finlay. I can only count on one hand the times I’ve truly enjoyed torturing people. Don’t get me wrong, I live for it. Making the bad guys bleed—hell, making anyone bleed. There’s something deep inside me that thrives on spilling blood. You can agree with that, can’t you? I mean, you did murder your parents and your little sister after all. How did that feel, huh? Killing her, seeing the light bleed out of her. Knowing that you did it by your own hand?”
His eyes crinkle around the corners and I smile, reading the pain in his eyes that’s shinning back at me.
“I bet it hurt, didn’t it? I bet you hate yourself.”
He growls beneath the tape and my smirk only deepens. I’m enjoying this far too much.
“You want to know where torturing you is on my list? Hmm? It’s right up there with my father’s brother. My first ever kill. Congratulations, you’ve made my list. But you know what else that means, don’t you? Your death is going to be the furthest thing from easy. I’m going to drag it out. I’m going to make you wish you burned in that fire all those years ago, because now?” I lean into his space, wiping the smirk off. My face is void of any emotion as I let the darkness seep inside, tainting my soul like an ink spill. “You’re going to pay. For everything.” My voice is sharp and cold, and to drive it home, I grasp the edge of the tape and start tearing it off. It unwinds from around his head and I yank a little harder than necessary to get it off the back of his scalp and his lips.
“Fuck!” he growls out in pain, his cracked lips now bleeding, half his skin stuck to the tape. T
he corner of my mouth tips up and I blow out a whistle when I get a look at the back of his head. The tape took out a chunk of his hair back there.
“Now.” I stand to my full height, tossing the tape beside me. “Where should we start today?”
I glance over my shoulder toward Cova and find his gaze zeroed in on Finlay. I flick my chin toward Finlay, silently telling him to do his worst before the real fun begins. Garrett goes straight in for the kill. His fists fly at Finlay’s face. The sound of flesh making impact echoes around the basement and I relish in it. I slip back into the shadows, propping my body against the table filled with supplies and I watch as Cova takes out his anger on him. Each hit is well thought out. I can practically hear his thoughts. Where he’s hitting and why.
A jarring hit to the temple for his sister.
Another jab square in the face for his mom.
Another one along his jaw for his father.
He keeps going until his knuckles are bloody and Finlay’s face is dripping. He’s got a mean gash above his eye, his nose is busted to shit and I’m pretty sure his front teeth are caved in. Even with the beating he’s just taken, I’m not finished with him today. Not by a long shot.
Pushing off the table, I grab the bucket sitting beneath the table near me and start dragging it toward Finlay’s bound body. I motion to Cova.
“Grab his chair and tip it back.”
Finlay’s eyes swing to mine. I see the questions there. He’s probably wondering what I’m doing. I’m sure they both are.
“There’s shit and piss everywhere.” Garrett’s nose curls up in disgust, but I shrug. You have to do what you have to do.
Finally acquiescing, he maneuvers himself and before he can tip the chair back, I step forward and place myself in Finlay’s line of sight.
“Ever been waterboarded? Heard it’s a real son of a bitch.”
His lips curl over his teeth, more blood dripping from his torn lips. A dark grin spreads across my face. I slip out the black cloth bag from my back pocket.
“Sophia has. She knows exactly what it’s like to be waterboarded and now, it’s your turn.” I tug the bag over his head and ignore the way he fights futilely in the chair against his binds. I motion to Cova and he tips the chair back, just enough that Finlay’s head hangs down. Grabbing the bucket filled with cold water, I lift it and start pouring. The effect is immediate. Finlay gurgles. His body spasms in the chair and I listen with rapt attention to him drowning. Choking on water. Trying to suck in air.
I pause the flow and let him try to regain his breath, but the cloth is matted to his face, blocking his airway, making everything harder. That panic he feels? That’s what Sophia felt when they did this to her. Because of him. Because of his stupid fucking decisions.
“Now, we’re going to make this a little more fun. You’re going to tell me where Abdul and the rest of those men are, all the men that ever hurt Sophia, and you’re going to tell me now. And it’s not because I’m going to spare your life or make anything easy on you. You’re going to do it because I fucking said so.”
He doesn’t say anything, just continues choking, and I sigh. That really is too bad.
Gripping the bucket, I tip it over him again and let the water cascade down his face, into his lungs, and up his nose. I can just imagine the tightening he’s feeling in his chest. The burning in his nostrils. He’s probably somehow trying to find a way to stop it and breathe at the same time, but he can’t. That’s the best part.
I pause my ministrations again.
“Want to try that again? I couldn’t quite hear you the first time.”
He coughs. Choking up liquid that’s no doubt swimming in his lungs right about now. “I-I…” he has another choking fit. “I d-don’t know.” His voice is raspy and wet. Completely fucking guttural and I love it.
I sigh, planting my face in front of his. He can’t see me through the bag, but I know he can feel me. And that’s enough. “That’s too fucking bad.” My voice comes out low and deadly.
With the last of the water, I pour it over him, enjoying the helpless noises that escape him. It’s music to my fucking ears. Once the water runs out, Garrett rights his chair and I give Finlay a few seconds to gather himself, before yanking off the bag over his head. He looks like a bloody, pale mess and it has the darkness that lives inside of me thriving within my body. The bloodlust soaring through my veins.
I want more.
I glance back at the table and when I spot the ropes, an idea hits me. it’ll be messy, completely fucking disgusting, but so worth it. With my mind made up, I stride toward the table and first grab for the ropes, but the welded chain with a thick, sturdy industrial nail hook attached to it holds my attention. I glance back at Finlay’s shivering form then down to the chain again before I grab a hold of it, my eyes finding the hook in the center of the room hanging from the ceiling.
I drag the chain after me, the metal scrapes across the tile, like nails on a chalkboard. I measure him up, trying to figure out how this will work, if it’ll even work. Dropping down to my haunches, I grip his legs by the ankles, where he’s bound so he can’t run or kick. I turn over the hook looking nail that’s attached to the chain and glance back at his ankles. Turning to Garrett, I indicate to the table. “Bring me the hammer. I want you to hold his legs for me.”
There’s hesitance at first, but it doesn’t last long. He tosses shit around along the table until he finds a hammer that’s suitable. He hands it off to me and holds Finlay’s legs, just like I instructed. I poise the sharpened end of the nail against the flesh of his ankle and I can feel Garrett’s gaze on me. By now, he’s no doubt figured out what I have planned.
I glance up and see Finlay staring down at the nail poised at his flesh. There’s no emotion on his face. He knows what’s coming and he’s going to be in a world of pain when it happens. Gripping the hammer, I slam the flat base onto the end of the nail and Finlay screams. I do it again and again and again. Blood spurts from his ankle, coating my hands and making everything slippery. The nail starts to hit something hard, and if possible, Finlay’s wails raise in volume, becoming sharper, more pained. I realize that’s because I’m hitting bone. With one last swing, I embed the thick nail into his bone, and he jerks on his chair, seizing from the sheer agony. His eyes are bulging. His face red and purple with anguish as he spurts, sucking in fast breaths in and out of his mouth, trying to breathe through the pain.
“One down,” I muse, amusement lacing my tone. “Only one more to go.”
Balancing the next nail against the meaty flesh of his other ankle, I do the same as before. Pounding the hammer against the thick end, forcing it through his flesh until it meets bone. He’s no longer screaming as loud. But his body is still seizing. His eyes are closed now. His body shutting him off from the pain, going into survival mode.
When the final nail is all the way through skin and bone, I stand to my full height and tower over Finlay. His blood coats my hands and arms and I wipe them on my pants. When I glance at Garrett, the expression on his face is angry though the pallor of his skin is ashen white, like what he just helped with is so far out of his comfort zone, he’s having a tough time processing it.
“Now the fun part.”
His gaze swings to mine.
“That wasn’t the fun part?” his voice is incredulous. As it should be.
“Not even close.”
Finlay finally stops seizing and I rest my hand beneath his nose and the other along his neck checking for his pulse.
Good. He’s still alive.
Digging in my back pocket, I yank out the hunting knife with the serrated blades and cut through the binds that are keeping him strapped to the chair. Taking his hands, I secure them behind his back and grab for the zip ties, binding them together.
“Grab his upper half,” I instruct Garrett. He does so without question. And when I start dragging Finlay toward the center of the room, where the hook is, realization dawns on Cova’s face. He hel
ps me lift Fin’s dead weight, attaching one of the thick rings on the metal chain, the one that’s wrapped and embedded into his ankles, to the hook bolted into the ceiling. His body hangs upside down, his blood already dripping beneath him in a small puddle.
“You sure that’s gonna hold his weight?”
I shrug, glaring up at Finlay, who is strung up from his ankles. The nail and the chains are the only things holding him. The pain he must be in. The heavy weight of his body pulling down on the wounds, on the ligaments and bones. Defying gravity. That is until the nails tear through his flesh.
“I guess we’ll find out tomorrow morning when we see if his ankles are still attached to his body.”
I feel Garrett’s gaze on me and when I turn toward him, my face void of any emotion, he shakes his head. As if he’s trying to put the pieces of me together and figure me out.
“You really are fucked up, man,” he says and his boots thud on the tile floor until he exits.
I stare back at Finlay, strung up and bleeding. Completely helpless.
“I know,” I say out loud, to no one in particular.
I WATCH FROM THE DOORWAY as Sophia navigates her way around the room, telling the guys where to put what. We finally decided on a theme—I should say she did. The room is a light crème color, and it’s decorated with baby animals, yet it still looks modern and neutral. With her hand resting over her stomach, she instructs Jose and Garrett to push the dresser up against the left wall, right next to the changing table.
I glance down at her ankles that are already swelling. Her cute feet are lost in the plush gray rug she wanted for the room. Not real fur though. My girl couldn’t stand the idea of an actual mink rug on the floor.
My mind wanders—to Finlay, to his body strung up and bleeding. After hanging him up there, I left him for a full day without checking on him, and surprisingly, when I went back in, he was still hanging, body fully intact. His ankles were swollen and purple. Hell, in order to keep him alive, I might have to cut them off.
